Delicate
by speciallillsnowflake
Summary: Summer of fifth year: Harry is angry; Hermione ends up alone. Someone finds a locket no one is able to open. Let's make Hermione figure out what charms have been placed on it. Here you go, dear, a very pretty necklace and a mystery. Have fun. Something festers: everything shifts so slightly you wouldn't notice at first: then the pandemonium starts.
1. What You Did Last Summer

Harry was angry with her, she knew. He was angry with all of them, but most of all with Hermione. Ron and Ginny and Fred and George could all be excused. They were influenced by their family. They had grown up with tales about the great Dumbledore and his faultless existence. Their family was a part of the Order in the last war and had joined again for this one; Hermione had no such ties. She had been the one most likely to get away with only a slight scolding, had she sent Harry a real letter. But she hadn't and it had all been a terrible mistake. Even though Dumbledore had explained to her why she shouldn't, she never should have taken his word at face value. There were more sides to this story, and she hadn't known how desperate Harry was for a real sign from them. She had made it her business not to know. And it had all been a terrible mistake.

It was a terrible, lonely feeling. She'd never quite fit in their little trio. She never played chess, instead always opting to read a book, and always scolded the two of them for getting into trouble. She was their misfit, and Harry was the only one kind enough to try and make her a part of them most of the time. Without him, it was painfully obvious that she didn't get along with Ron at all. He was an obnoxious git, and without Harry around to guide his temper into a match of Gobblestones, Hermione felt it was better to stay out of his way for the time being. So she amused herself with cleaning the house and perusing the Black library, trying not to feel the silence around her.

The Black library was another matter entirely. She had never, in her life, seen such black books. She thought there were spells so dark in this library that pools of rank, oily magic would drip out of the parchment and collect in puddles at her feet, were she ever to open one. She ignored them the best she could. They lured her with promises that were too foul to be remembered and threatened her with knowledge far too dark to ever study. She turned to the more sophisticated parts of the library, dealing with shields and charms and turning a shoe into a dress. She read. She studied. She ignored the empty room around her in favour of reading about the Erkenskine Approach to Transfiguration.

And then they found the locket. It was the first time in days anyone addressed her, and it was to ask if she knew another opening charm.

"Have you tried Patefacium yet?" She asked Tonks, and the witch shook her head.

"We've tried Aperio, though, and if that doesn't open it-"

"Of course, then neither will Patefacium." Hermione nodded. "Have you tried to simply strip the opening hinges from their power?"

Tonks seemed decidedly uninterested in the whole ordeal, but performed the spell anyway. It didn't seem to have any effect on the gaudy thing, and Tonks' shoulders drooped.

"You know what, here, you take this, I bet you're interested in this kind of thing, I mean, who isn't, this is fascinating.", the witch blabbered and pushed the locket in Hermione's hands. Though surprised, she was not unwilling to take it.

"You know what, here, you do this in school, like a project, right? That's interesting." And Tonks took off.

* * *

Halfway through the summer, something had shifted, changed, and warped inside Hermione. She could not fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundations. It was too long ago. She only knew that day by day, nothing had changed, but when she looked back, everything was different. This summer was somehow different.

Never before had she cared so little- it was almost liberating, in a way she had never experienced before. She had decided to stop caring, and it had worked. She was done. Done with them, done with this situation, done with everything in this grimy danky house. She felt lighter than she had in the past five years.

She spent the days lounging in her rooms, reading whichever book had caught her fancy at the moment. She learned by leaps and bounds, no longer obstructed by asinine comments on quidditch. She did what she wanted to do, for weeks on end, completely uninterupted and blessedly alone.

Book by book, slowly but surely, she was conquering the polite part of the Black library.

Somehow studying alone had sped up her learning curve by more than was feasible. Studying now consisted of choosing a topic of her choice, and skimming the books a bit, and then putting them back. It was so ridiculously easy, it almost took the joy out of learning something new.

It was almost as if she was reviewing the spells, instead of learning them anew. As if the knowledge of these subject was already present in her head, somewhere, and reviewing them called it to the forefront of her mind again. No hassle, no trouble, just a vague feeling of recognition and a quick understanding of fundamental aspects. The ease with which she learned was almost worrying. Something about the whole situation couldn't be quite right. Normally she would probably worry and research. And she would. Just not quite yet.

She was trying to cram as much as possible into her head before this strange aptitude ran out of steam. Transfigurational theory for the upcoming year was tackled, as was Charms, Arithmancy, and the first half of Defense Against the Dark Arts. She'd even managed some reading -just for the interesting spells- on the side, as well.

* * *

Half of the summer passed. People came and went. Hermione remained either holed up in her room, holed up in the library, or faded into obscurity at dinners. Which is exactly how she preferred it, really. People in Black house were all redundant.

* * *

On the first night of her fourth week in Black house, Hermione awoke crying an obscene amount of tears. They trailed down her cheeks and caused wet spots on her pillow case. She didn't know why she was doing it- surely she would have noticed if she felt unhappy? There wasn't anything specific about the last few days that could've set her off somehow.

Except for her partly self-imposed isolation, that is.

As she turned around and buried her head in her pillow, she wondered if that could be the catalyst for her crying fit: humans were a social species, and her last human interaction had been when Remus asked her to pass the cheese, and she had done so without comment.

So maybe she should re-integrate herself with the people in this house. But how? Harry and Ron wouldn't be going around forgiving her any time soon, that she knew for certain. Maybe she should try to make some friends other than the two buffoons who called themselves Harry and Ron?

But what if her sponge-like mind retreated back into its former shell? The strength of her mind was her priority.

No, she decided. If she was going to have some human interaction, it would have to be on a regular basis, but brief. So friendly, but decidedly not a new best friend.

She squashed her pillow just the right way, and went to sleep.

* * *

Her first thought had been the Weasley Twins. Although they were brothers of Ron, they were friendly with pretty much everyone, and often good company.

She started her new-found mission by venturing out of her room. It was lunchtime, so the entire floor was deserted, leaving her to enter the Twin's experimentation room without reproach.

The room seemed to be roughly divided into four parts, and all of them were crammed to the ceiling.

* * *

She carefully picked her way through the room, and sat down on a patch of floor free of anything. Her necklace jingled as she shifted a bit and looked at the convenient patch. It should be big enough to comfortably seat two people.

She gingerly shoved a stack of papers closer towards her, and started reading them.

* * *

When the Twins finally returned from a very long drawn-out lunch, Hermione was sufficiently immersed in all the theory to shut out all exterior factors. It took the Twins several minutes of uncomfortably clearing their throats and shuffling their feet before she noticed them. It was only when she went for another pile of parchment that she saw them standing.

"Oh," she said. "Hello. Are you done eating already? Good. See, this was what I wanted to talk to you about."

At their blank looks, she shook the bundle of papers she was holding.

"Your ideas, stupids!"

* * *

Runes were her focus of the day. They were used surprisingly much for being such an obsolete subject in the Hogwarts curriculum and library. Thankfully the Black library seemed to make up for that oversight on Hogwarts' part. She'd been snuffing around for about half an hour, and already her efforts had borne her more than three stacks of the most-interesting looking books. Gathering them in her arms, careful not to topple over, she made her way to the Weasley's room. And if she passed a ginger haired girl on her way over, well, surely that didn't mean anything? It wasn't as if she was obliged to make idle chitchat with any and everyone in this danky house.

She openend the door by walking backwards into it, and dumped the books -carefully- on the bed. Twin no' 1 was seated with potions and no' 2 was gone, presumably getting some food. Twin no' 1 gave her a smile, and opened his mouth to say something, but something chimed, and he turned back to his bubbling kettle.

Hermione smiled and made herself comfortable on the bed, book spread out, necklace cold against her neck.

* * *

They had reached an accord. Hermione was now a part of their Joke Shop Creating Team. It wasn't an easy thing to achieve. Rather than going through the pains of trying to establish some kind of emotional bond based on mutual characteristics, Hermione had bettered more than ten of their designs in the hour that they were eating lunch and that was that. They weren't necessarily friends now, but rather some kind of neighbours, or roommates. A familiarity that normally only came with a lifetime knowing someone surrounded them, but at the same time they didn't have a click as friends. There were no rousing discussions or splitting laughter. Rather there was knowing each other's favourite drink and sharing ideas, lending Hermione some clothes and a bed when it was too late for her to get back to her room without someone noticing, and some kind of protective air. Hermione now ate dinner wedged in between the Twins, and the Twins got Molly off their backs by hanging around with a straight-laced bookworm.

It worked just fine for them. The rest of the house was another story entirely, as the majority was now convinced they were a threesome, and proceeded to either gniffle at them or turn away in disgust. As long as they didn't directly bother them, Hermione couldn't care less.

* * *

The Black Library was black. Of course Hermione knew this. But it was another thing to stand there, staring at a book that explained fifty different ways of disembowling someone, and then fifty different ways of using their innards in some kind of ritual.

She shivered, and walked out, straight towards the Twins' room. She'd come back later. On her way to the Twins, she stopped by her room to grab a night shirt, a few notebooks, and her necklace.

* * *

Dinner was a raucous affair. People that had been out all day came back and were always most eager to talk about their day. This always seemed to rouse the self-importance of those confined to the house, who then explained all about their day.

Hermione no longer joined dinner. It really was not worth it. People shouted and laughed, told about their day -usually no different than the one before, or the one coming up-, and generally ignored Hermione.

House Black employed a House-Elf, a weird, bat-like creature. It -he- seemed almost an indentured servant, but was somehow most happy to serve. It was one of those oddities of magic. House-elves were not limited to wands, or brooms, or potions, or other trinkets. Instead they were limited to the wishes of those who were bound to all that they were free of.

Anyway, the Black's house-elf had adopted the views of the late Mrs Black. Walburga Black (God bless her soul) was a nasty little cretin of a woman, prejudiced to the very last drop of her superior blood. And thus, the house-elf hastily vacated any room Hermione entered.

This situation made her the only person in the house able to cook her own dinner. Not that she did- she just poached off of whatever was left.

* * *

Summer was drawing to its end. Hermione was going through the Black Library methodically. Shelf after shelf was scanned. Hermione had roped Fred and George into what she called A Mission Of Utmost Importance. They'd go to the library together, and first make sure nobody was there. Then they'd steal books.

It was against every Hermione's very principal principle. She was now a book-thief.

This was a fact she blamed on Walburga Black and her slimy conniving ways.

"No, but really," she complained aloud to Fred. She turned to him abruptly in the middel of perusing one more shelf. Her necklace clattered against her collar.

"I'll bet you she meant for this to happen. I mean, the Black line couldn't continue, right?"

When there was no confirming nod, she pinned Fred with a frown.

"Right?"

"Yes, yes," he rushed to assure her. "Of course not."

"Right," Hermione sniffed. "And with no heirs, what did she think would happen to this library!"

Summer was drawing to an end but Hermione was prepared for this. Her trunk was filled -stuffed- with texts upon texts upon texts upon texts upon texts. The books were shunken, the trunk was enchanted to hold more than it could in reality. Then she had 'borrowed' a knapsack from the Black family, and made big eyes at Remus (she'd told him the function on her trunk was wearing off. Cheap trunks did that.). 'Her' knapsack then could hold almost as much as her trunk.

Fred and George had taken care to make copies of each and every one of the books she'd taken, and put them back in the library. Those copies would only last for about a few months, but she'd be back here to replace them again before then. And even if she wasn't, it wasn't like anyone even used this library. They wouldn't miss a few -or even quite some more than a few- books missing. Plus, every single tome in her suitcase had an equivalent copy here. If anyone ever needed a book from the Black Library they could still use it. This book-stealing business wasn't stealing at all: it was merely some kind of advanced borrowing.

It didn't even occur to Hermione to pack the copies herself.

* * *

The day of departure was, once again, hectic. Half of the house had abstained from even thinking about packing until the very last second. Now the house was adrift with flurries of hurried motions, throwing, and stuffing. Ronald seemed to have lost his wand for the fourth time this morning. Some of Ginny's sweaters still needed to be washed. Percy's Headboy badge seemed to mysteriously have undergone some kind of transitions. It was now vivid purple and orange, with bold green letters declaring 'whoever reads this is an idiot".

Hermione, Fred and Goerge were holed up in their room, waiting out the pandemonium.

* * *

Hermione threw her head back and laughed. She was sitting crosslegged on the train bench, opposite Lee and George.

"No, really!" Lee exclaimed. "You shoud have seen his face!" And, trying to stiffle his laughter, he twisted his face into a mimic of a mesh between disgust and shock.

This set Hermione off again.

* * *

Her book was open on her lap, forgotten in the moment. Pretty Scottish scenery rushed by on her right, but she was focussed on the people in her compartment.

"No, we use some kind of… umm, we call it a dishwasher, and it's a kind of box, about this high, and you put your dishes in there, and it washes them for you, kind of."

Fred snorted.

"Really. You expect me to believe muggles have a magic box for their dirty dishes?"

"Well," Hermione said. "Kind of, yes."

There was a beat of silence before the compartment dissolved in laughter.

* * *

"And then," Fred snorted. "Then he asked her if she washed it! And guess what she said? _Guess_!"

"Of course I did!" George chortled. "That's what she said!"

Hermione was doubled over, tears in her eyes and stitches in her side. " _No way,_ " she gasped. "You made that up! _No way!_ "

* * *

"Well, no, of course you don't. That's silly. But applying Theodare's third law of Transfiguration would amplify it, especially if you manage to work in a Xethe rune somewhere. It'd last at least five more days. And I genuinely think the Xethe rune will make the stink worse then anything you can imagine."

Fred blinked. "Okay. We can try. I mean, the dragon painting can totally contain a… what was it again?"

"A Xethe rune. It's shaped kind of like a really elaborate X, you know, with the little frrillies on the side. And a circle around it that touched all four of the frillies in a 90 degree angle. But you can mass copy that one."

Fred, frowning, turned back to his paper.

" I think we can probably draw, like, the head, but with the eyes in the frilly things, you see. Look, if you do that one over there, and then just shift them apart... _like this_."

He handed her the parchment. The horse-towed wagon bumped over something, and Fred's and Hermione's hands missed each other by inches. The sheet fluttered to the floor. Hermione bent to pick it up and scrutinised the painting, the ends of her necklace brushing over the parchment.

"Yeah," she admitted. "That would totally work."

* * *

Alright folks, that was it.

* * *

Alrighty, summary:

I've always found it strange that the locket they found in the summer before fifth year was somehow just forgotten by everyone involved: it was something none of them could open, and almost everyone tried, according to the books. So much magic interacting with a bit of soul: shouldn't it have interfered with anyone? In this story, it messes with Hermione.


	2. Well, I'm just surviving

The feast was as welcoming as always. Dumbledore's new scapegoat -a woman this time- had given a speech about being honoured to serve as the new DADA professor, but Hermione hadn't paid any attention to it at all. Fred and George were telling her about household Charms, and it just seemed so interesting. Apparently you could do them at age five, but they still bore a remarkable similarity to charms they were studying in class.

Hermione just didn't understand. No five-year old should be able to do anything concerning magic. This was interesting. A short lady in a too-pink suit was decidedly not.

* * *

She is quickly and efficiently separated from the Twins. Dinners are the only time the three of them have. During the day their classes form a barrier and during the evening everyone is studying: Hermione because she simply wants to, and the Twins because they want to score well enough to please their mum just a bit. Hogwarts' strictest rule is that sleeping is to be done in your own bed and no one else's, so their time really is limited to dinner time.

But dinner time is the time to eat food. And the Weasleys have grown up one overabundant meals. Theoretically, Hermione and the Twins have more than an hour a day to talk, but in reality it's not even ten minutes.

They keep an ambient atmosphere, and theirs is a general consensus of _later_. Holidays are plenty, and they'll find their time.

* * *

Hogwarts feels like coming home. The halls, the arches, the Great Hall and the classrooms. At the sight of them, affection rises up in her throat and chokes her windpipe. She doesn't know where it came from, this love for the castle. It's inside of her, and wells up on the strangest moments. The transfiguration classroom left her empty and feeling cold, but the dungeons of the Potions classrooms almost choke her with nostalgia.

The people leave her cold. She can't connect with the girls in her year- she never could. Now that she has ostracised herself from Harry and Ron, company is scarce. The conversations at dinner and at breakfast flow around her like air: it doesn't affect her, doesn't touch her, doesn't do anything except provide background noise for her thoughts.

* * *

Hermione sat down at the table. Defence against the Dark Arts. Her worst subject, yet something in her was excited, longing fiercely for the moment she could raise her wand and start casting.

The class was quiet as it entered the room: professor Umbridge was, as yet, an unknown quantity and nobody knew how strict a disciplinarian she was likely to be.

"Well, good afternoon!" she said, when finally the whole class had sat down. There was something vaguely condescending in her tone, and something in Hermione bristled and shook awake.

A few people mumbled "good afternoon" in reply.

"Tut, tut," said Professor Umbridge. "That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply "Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge". One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!".

"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,", they chanted back at her. Hermione's teeth clenched just a bit.

"There now," said Professor Umbridge sweetly. "That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please."

Many of the class exchanged gloomy looks; the order "wands away" had never yet been followed by a lesson they had found interesting. Hermione shoved her wand back inside her bag and pulled out quill, ink and parchment. Something inside her chest tightened and grew, and she felt her cheeks heat just a bit.

"Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it?" stated Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. "The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your OWL year."

"You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centred, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Has everybody got a copy of the assigned books?'

There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the class.

"I think we'll try that again," said Professor Umbridge. "When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply, "Yes, Professor Umbridge", or "No, Professor Umbridge". So: has everyone got a copy of the assigned books?"

"Yes, Professor Umbridge," rang through the room.

"Good," said Professor Umbridge. "I should like you to turn to page five and read "Chapter One, Basics for Beginners". There will be no need to talk."

Hermione daintly closed her book with a quiet snap. She got out a Black library book on the different uses of Transfigurational methods and started reading. It seemed to make no difference to professor Umbridge.

* * *

She makes up with Ron and Harry. She doesn't intend to, but it happens anyway.

The boys had been seated at the dinner table in their usual place. She had been walking while thinking, and sat down in the first place available.

Ron had continued eating, but Harry had cleared his throat. The both of them had fallen silent and still, and stared at her. She'd looked up, realised where she was, and made a move to stand up.

"Oh. I'm sorry, I'll...," _sit somewhere else_ , is what she meant to say. _I'll make it up to you_ , is what the boys heard. Twin grins had sprung into existence.

"'Mione! You can't believe how long we've been bloody waiting for you. Cor, all the homework!" Ron dramatically struck a pose. "The homework! There has been _suffering_ , Mione, _suffering_. Can't believe we ever managed a school week on our own without you." He had winked at her, and ruffled her hair, like he used to do before.

Harry had simply smiled at her. His green eyes were twinkling behind his glasses, as if all was right with the world now his errant friend had apologised.

Hermione had simply sat there. This was all she had had to do? The entire summer spend on her own, all because she hadn't said that she was sorry? She didn't get it. It felt so petty.

If a few words had fixed the situation, the situation surely couldn't have been so dire to start with.

* * *

A week gone by yet again.

You'd think her renewed friendship with her best friends would have had an impact in her life. It didn't. Nothing changed. Instead of curling up with a good book at the fireplace, she now curled up with a good book at the fire place with two boys playing Gobblestones in front of it. In classes she sat with three instead of one, which meant she sat alone in front of Harry and Ron. At dinner she sat with the Twins or with her friends. Either way, her thoughts were somewhere else.

She didn't know exactly where she drifted off to, but the last few weeks saw Hermione staring into nothing for any length of time more than a few times. She'd be thinking about the new homework for Transfiguration, and before she realised it, it would be dinner time. It felt pleasant, the drifting off. It felt like a good nights rest or a good hot bath. She'd startle conscious, awake and freshened and somehow sharper than she was before.

* * *

"'Miooone...? D'you think we could...". -

-" _No_ , Ron."

"Aww, Maine! You know we could never match your genius if we tried. There's no way Harry and I would get anywhere without you. We'd be lost without you. A little bit of homework and we'd be eternally grateful-".

" _No_ , Ronald. Piss off."

Ron did, in fact, move somewhere else. He stormed off, to God-knows-where, out of the common room. Where he was going didn't matter: what he said to Harry was what was important.

"I'm telling you mate, no reasoning with that one. Bloody useless."

 _Bloody useless._

Hermione was less patient with her friends than she used to be.

* * *

It was night. All seemed dark in the Gryffindor rooms. In the girls fifth year room, one bed had the curtains drawn.

Hermione was curled up in her four poster, knees tucked underneath her and her blanket worn like a cape. Her necklace was precariously placed on the bedside stand, as close to her bed as possible, and her book was perched up on her lap. Every few minutes a dainty hand came up to turn the pages.

"Tempus."

 _03:16_

She should be sleeping. She should go to sleep. She'd almost fallen asleep during their last transfiguration lesson. Hermione glances at her book. Seventy more pages to go.

She dismisses the tempus spell and dims the light as to not accidentally wake someone else in their dormitory. Then she settles in for the night and turns the page.

* * *

She is so absorbed in her books and her learning that it takes her a while. She sees the way Dean storms off during breakfasts, but doesn't observe the clenching in Harry's face or the murder in Ron's eyes. It's only when Malfoy stops at their table five weeks into the school year and sneers at them, that she realises her best friend is hurting. Hurting badly.

"Potter. Are you free to walk around? You'd think they'd lock you up just to make sure your crazy doesn't spread around." Malfoy's following lets out an obedient chuckle at the weak quip. Hermione frowns, unsure at the direction this new taunt is taking, but Harry's knuckles have whitened and Ron is halfway out of his seat. It is obviously of importance.

She turns around. "Are you sure your family should even be allowed to procreate, Malfoy? I mean, between the crazy of your aunt Bella and the idiotic stupidity of your father, you'd think the Malfoy line would've been sacrificed for the good of society, right?".

Malfoy sputters for a moment, but seems ready to retort -no doubt something concerning her unfortunate heritage or his father-dear - when Mcgonagall rigidly walks past.

He shoots a glare and scurries off, and Hermione is left with a satisfied curl of bitterness in her stomach. As she turns around, Ron querries her on her knowledge of "aunt Bella", but she shrugs her shoulders and looks at her nails.

"I probably read it somewhere, Ron. You'd understand, too, if you bothered to open a book once in a while."

This leads to a thorough debate -which is held only on Rons part- about the pros and cons of reading: mainly, that it takes too much time away from the more important things in life; meaning quidditch. Hermione finishes her breakfast to the sound of Ron mooning over the sport.

* * *

Their second DADA lesson goes no better. If anything, things escalate.

Instead of taking a different book with her, Hermione was set on confronting Professor Umbridge this time around. Not to say that she would be rude and confrontational to a _teacher- goodness, no_. Rather, she was planning on asking a few in-depth questions about the course material.

When the lesson started, Hermione did not even bother opening her book. She stared at Professor Umbridge. She put her hand up.

Professor Umbridge stared just as resolutely the other way.

Behind her, Hermione could feel Harry taking notice of her rebellious action and sitting up. This caught the attention of a few other students attempting to struggle on with "Basics for Beginners".

When more than half the class were staring at Hermione rather than at their books, Professor Umbridge seemed to decide that she could ignore the situation no longer.

"Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?" she asked Hermione, as though she had only just noticed her.

"Not about the chapter, no," said Hermione. Her heart was thrumming in her chest.

"Well, we're reading just now," said Professor Umbridge, showing her small teeth. "If you have other queries, we can deal with them at the end of class."

"I've got a query about your course aims," said Hermione bravely.

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows.

"And your name is?"

"… Hermione Granger," said Hermione (why did she hesitate?).

"Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully. They are described thoroughly on page seven, which you should have read last class," said Professor Umbridge in a voice of determined sweetness.

"Well, I don't," said Hermione bluntly. "There's nothing written there about using defensive spells."

There was a short silence in which many members of the class turned their heads to leaf through their books and frown at the course aims.

"Using defensive spells?" Professor Umbridge repeated with a little laugh. "Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren't expecting to be attacked during class?"

"We're not going to use magic?" Ron exclaimed loudly.

"Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr.-?"

"Weasley," said Ron, thrusting his hand into the air.

Professor Umbridge, smiling still more widely, turned her back on him. Harry and Hermione immediately raised their hands too. Professor Umbridge's pouchy eyes lingered on Harry for a moment before she addressed Hermione.

"Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "Surely the whole point of Defence Against the Dark Arts is to practise defensive spells?"

"Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?" asked Professor Umbridge, in her falsely sweet voice.

"No, but-"

"Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the "whole point" of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new programme of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way-"

"What use is that?' said Harry loudly. 'If we're going to be attacked, it won't be in a-"

"Hand, Mr Potter!" sang Professor Umbridge.

Harry thrust his fist in the air. Again, Professor Umbridge promptly turned away from him, but now several other people had their hands up, too.

Hermione saw the situation escalating. Something in her bristled and shook awake. She felt incredibly disconnected, and ever so cold. She raised her hand, but started talking without any prompt from the Professor.

"Right you are, Professor. Absolutely no use in practicing those kind of things. We'll be absolutely fine, of course. Thank you for answering my question. We'll all be fine, guys, right?" She glanced around the room, trying to catch the eyes of as many as she could. Most were looking at her like she'd grown another head that had started spitting fire, but on her glare, all of them slowly lowered their hands. For them, comprehension seems to be no requisite for cooperation. For all of them, except for Harry.

"So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting for us out there?"

"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter."

"Oh, yeah?" said Harry. His temper, which seemed to have been bubbling just beneath the surface ever since breakfast, was reaching boiling point.

"Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?" enquired Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed voice.

"Hmm, let's think …" said Harry in a mock thoughtful voice. "Maybe ... Lord Voldemort?"

Ron gasped; Lavender Brown uttered a little scream; Neville slipped sideways off his stool: Hermione's heart stuttered and started racing. Professor Umbridge, however, did not flinch. She was staring at Harry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face.

"Detention, Mr Potter! Tomorrow evening. Five o'clock. My office. You will not be spreading _lies_ in _my_ class." She turned to the class at large. "The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If any of you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page ten, "Basics for Beginners".'

Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk. Harry, however, stood up. Everyone was staring at him.

"Harry, no!" Hermione whispered in a warning voice, tugging at his sleeve, but Harry jerked his arm out of her reach.

"So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?" Harry asked, his voice shaking.

There was a collective intake of breath from the class, for none of them, apart from Ron and Hermione, had ever heard Harry talk about what had happened on the night Cedric had died. They stared avidly from Harry to Professor Umbridge, who had raised her eyes and was staring at him without a trace of a fake smile on her face. Hermione's face was made of stone.

"Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident," Professor Umbridge said coldly.

"It was murder," said Harry. Hermione could feel the curiosity of all thirty students in the classroom, and for a moment, she could have hit Harry and his stupid Gryffindorness. "Voldemort killed him and you know it."

Professor Umbridge's face was quite blank. For a moment, Hermione thought she was going to scream at Harry. Then she said, in her softest, most sweetly girlish voice, "Come here, Mr. Potter, dear."

He kicked his chair aside, strode around Ron and Hermione and up to the teacher's desk.

Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag, stretched it out on the desk, dipped her quill into a bottle of ink and started scribbling. Nobody spoke. After a minute or so she rolled up the parchment and tapped it with her wand; it sealed itself seamlessly so that he could not open it.

"Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear," said Professor Umbridge, holding out the note to him.

He took it from her without saying a word, turned on his heel and left the room, not even looking back at Ron and Hermione, slamming the classroom door shut behind him. Hermione growned, and exchanged glances with Ron.

" _Now_ he's done it."

* * *

Next up: the DA! & Hermione is feeling... tired? Mmm, wonder why?


End file.
